Smart Is Sexier than I Thought
by TraceyI
Summary: Scully is forced to go on a date with Frohike.


Disclaimer: The X-files and the characters of Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, Melvin Frohike, and the others are the property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, the FOX Network, and anyone else whose property they are. No infringement is intended. Shakespeare's "Hamlet" is in the public domain; that I meant to infringe. (Come and get me, Bill! Life plus seventy, pal!)

Reviews are always welcome.

"Smart Is Sexier than I Thought"

By TraceyI

"Damn him," she snorted. "Damn that Mulder." Special Agent Dana Scully angrily tossed back her mane of red hair. She would definitely have to think of some special way to seek retribution for this one. Not only had he violated their friendship, but he had also violated the Thirteenth Amendment in the process! He had sold her into slavery. And for _information_. Her anger softened a little. Information that might lead to Samantha. She sighed audibly. But why couldn't he have promised something a little less, well, _personal_? Why not a picture of her, or even a lock of her hair? She shivered inadvertently as the image of Donny Pfaster leapt to her mind. No, she definitely didn't want Frohike to have a lock of her hair. She was afraid he might try to clone her from it or something even weirder. But an actual _date_ with Frohike. This was just too much. And why was she going along with it? An expression somewhere between a smile and a sneer curled her lips and narrowed her eyes. Because the chance to hold this over her partner's head was too good to miss. Mulder had never in his life owed anyone what he was going to owe her for this one. She was going to put him on a very long payment plan.

She looked at her watch. 6:55 p.m. Five minutes. She resisted the urge to check her makeup. "I am _not_ going to try to look good for Frohike," she said to Queequeg the Pomeranian, who cocked his head at her quizzically. She looked down at herself. Black jeans and a sweater. "Good enough!" she thought aloud.

At exactly seven o'clock the doorbell rang, startling Scully as she applied fresh lipstick before the bathroom mirror, her vanity having gotten the better of her. After all, she didn't get that many dates. She made her way to the front door, blotting her lipstick and tripping over Queequeg as she went. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door.

"Good evening, Agent Scully," said Frohike. "You're looking especially lovely this evening." He extended a bouquet of fresh flowers to her. Scully mumbled a "thank you" as she took the flowers from him. She looked at Frohike. Bow tie. Hair slicked down. Bow tie. Thick glasses. Bow tie. She fought the knee-jerk nose wrinkling that threatened to convey her distaste for the man.

"Shouldn't you put those into water?" Frohike asked, nodding at the flowers. Scully sighed and held the door for him.

"I'll just be a second," she added, hoping he wouldn't come too far into her apartment. She looked over her shoulder as she entered the kitchen and was relieved to see Frohike standing by the front door with his hands clasped like a schoolboy on his best behavior. Taking a closer look at the flowers, she was struck by something familiar. Then it hit her.

"You know," she said casually, "when I woke up in the hospital after... well, after what happened to me, my room was full of wildflowers like these. I never figured out who sent them."

She looked at Frohike, who had dropped his head to examine his fingernails. Scully thought she could make out the hint if a blush on what she could see of his cheeks. "Well, Agent Scully," he stammered without looking up, "you are much more...approachable...when you're unconscious." His words took Scully completely by surprise, and she felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for Frohike; had she really been that awful to him? And just how much time had he spent staring at her as she lay in a coma? She arranged the flowers furiously, not looking up at her guest.

"Well, Agent Scully," Frohike interrupted her reverie, clapping his hands together. "Your chariot awaits."

Scully sighed and headed for the door, grabbing her jacket from the closet as she passed it. "Please, allow me," said Frohike as he took her jacket from her and helped her into it. Again, all Scully could muster was a mumbled, "thanks" as Frohike held the door open for her, ushering her out into the cool evening air without actually touching her.

Frohike walked to the curb and opened the door to a red, mint condition 1966 Mustang. Scully was surprised; she had expected one of those cars men used to compensate for their inadequacies, like a Corvette or a Trans Am. Or something more fitting his personality, like a Gremlin. She smiled as she remembered hours in the Scully family garage, oil and grease smeared on her overalls, face, and hands, working on old cars with her two brothers. A '66 Mustang was a classy car. And it looked like he took good care of it; she took in the gleaming metal. Top up, she noted with appreciation as she absent-mindedly smoothed her hair. "Nice car, Frohike," Scully said. "A 289 three-speed six, if I remember correctly."

Now it was Frohike's turn to be surprised. "Don't tell me you like classic cars, too," he said. Boy, he mused, she's even more my dream woman than I thought. Frohike opened the passenger door with a flourish and ushered Scully into the gleaming vehicle. As he started the car, the soundtrack to "The Big Chill" wafted gently from the speakers of an obviously homemade stereo system. Scully smiled slightly at Frohike, noting that, despite his best Cary Grant impersonation, he was as nervous as a teenager on a first date; at least he didn't have the stereo cranked up to 11 or burn rubber as he pulled away from the curb. All efforts to the contrary notwithstanding, Scully started to relax.

Two hours later, Scully and Frohike sat at a table near a roaring fireplace in a quiet, elegant restaurant, arguing over biscotti and cappuccino.

"Come on, Frohike," Scully challenged him, "you know that kind of mutation could only occur over a very long period of time, not in one generation."

Frohike kept pushing. "I'm telling you, Agent Scully, the government manipulates DNA every day, rearranging nucleotides and scrambling RNA sequences to produce everything from better tomatoes to Bigfoot."

Scully sank back into her chair, raising her coffee to her lips and breathing in the heady aroma. "You're so smart, Frohike," she said with a slight shake of her head. Ordering dinner for both of them in Italian, picking exactly what she would have ordered herself, effortlessly moving the conversation from recombinant DNA to Smokey Robinson and the Miracles and back to DNA and Bigfoot. "Why don't you apply some of that intelligence to something a little more real than Bigfoot?'

Frohike too leaned back in his chair, "There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Agent Scully."

She smiled at him across the table. To her great surprise, she was quite enjoying Frohike's company. He was brilliant and funny, like some sort of mad scientist. He had been able to match her every verbal thrust with a parry of his own, challenging her textbook version of science with his own unorthodox hypotheses. Her opportunities to talk science and medicine for the sheer fun of it were too few and far between.

Frohike eased the Mustang into a spot near Scully's apartment. "May I walk you to your door?" he asked as he made his way around to the passenger side door and helped her out of the car. Scully smiled and nodded.

As Scully opened the door to her apartment, she was utterly amazed to hear herself ask Frohike if he wanted to come in for a nightcap. Frohike took her right hand in both of his and shook his head as he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. "Good night, Agent Scully," he said formally as he stepped back. "I had a very good time tonight," they said in unison, then both smiled shyly, just like teenagers.

Scully waved from her doorstep as Frohike walked down the path to his car. "Frohi… Melvin!" she called as he was opening the car door. He looked up at her. "Can we have the top down next time?" A grin spread across his face. "For you, Agent Scully," he answered, "anything."

Scully grinned as well as she turned and closed the apartment door behind her. Yes, she thought, she really owed one to Mulder this time.

_Fin_


End file.
